Candles That Are Lit And Prayers That Are Said
by eshajouri
Summary: He's gone, leaving Kenny to mourn and suffer and try to find a way out the empty life his heart has left behind.


**Disclaimer:** South Park doesn't belong to me, neither do Björk's and Emilie Autumn's versions of the amazing song Gloomy Sunday (which I used to write this).

Enjoy and review please!

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><p><strong>Candles That Are Lit And Prayers That Are Said<strong>

_Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless  
><em>_Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless  
><em>_Little white flowers will never awaken you  
><em>_Not where the black coaches  
><em>_Sorrow has taken you  
><em>_Angels have no thought of ever returning you  
><em>_Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?_

He thinks of conspiracy and parallel universes; he thinks of life and death and _missing him_.

He thinks an awful lot.

He then recalls his voice, his face, the light blond hair, soft skin, a child-like innocence. He remembers their hands linked together, their laughs, nights and days and nights and days spent at a single bed, limbs tangled beneath the sheets. A warm feeling takes place inside his chest, a faint smile that makes its way to his lips, crossing all the pain and sorrow and longing that seem endless. But he remembers—and the faint smile is broken, shattered to pieces like his heart and his life.

He cries. Sometimes he screams, sometimes he can't; his throat is sore and dry, and the tears won't come. Still, he suffers; he misses, he yearns, he longs to be awaken from a nightmare. A bad dream where he finds something to live for and it's torn away from his bare hands—maybe they don't want him to live. Maybe they want him dead, maybe he's not supposed to be— to _feel_ alive; even though he doesn't know, he tries.

He slices his wrists, sometimes not deep enough; he remembers how it hurts to bleed to death, how his muscles and organs contract for hours until he's completely drained. When it happens, they usually find him soaked in liquid ruby and take him to the hospital. But sometimes he's not that much of a coward, and that's when he feels numb—he can't feel the pain, he can't feel his insides or his tendons breaking when the razor reaches a vein in which used to pump love and devotion, but now only throbs with cells that should soon develop cancer, a tumor made entirely of regrets and suffering.

He dies and comes back and there are lapses in his memory. He wonders if he met him again, or if he had been simply thrown back to life with no in-betweens, thrown to an alternative reality where he'd never had the balls to press the blade a little deeper. But maybe he saw his smile, maybe he touched his skin, maybe he kissed his lips. Weak hope makes his eyelids heavy every morning and goes away the next moment, because maybe that shallow sensation of a memory might had been just a dream.

He tries drowning, too. Sometimes in his bathtub; he takes clothes off—or maybe not, it depends on how much of a fuck he gives on the day—, he lets tears mix with hot water and smokes one last cigarette. He's finished and slowly slides underwater, but knows his body reflexes are going to betray him; they always do. His arms yank him out the water and his lungs gasp for air and he screams intelligible nonsense until his voice dies out and silent pain makes the atmosphere as melancholic as it can be. But sometimes he drives to Stark's Pond, even in the middle of the winter. He takes his time in the small hours; they are longer during this time of the year, anyway. He makes a hole in the icy surface of the water—not too small he can't fit, not too big he can be easily rescued—and dives into a dream where he can touch his treasure once again, whether per hypothermia or the excess of liquid in his lungs, it doesn't matter too much. Other seasons don't require as much laboring, though: he simply collects rocks and fills his pockets adequately and walks towards the center of the pond. And waits.

He always waits.

And he wakes up, wonders in which universe now. He looks to the side; a fragile impression of an angel goes away in the blink of an eye and he realizes it didn't work. It never does.

He goes out sometimes, if he's not convinced starving to death would be the solution to all of his problems. He notices people have moved on; his parents, his friends, everyone but himself. He wonders how long it has been, how long he has suffered, if it hasn't been enough. He wanders and imagines what it would be if he were here; he sees things and yearns to tell him all about his day, all the beautiful things he's seen and he notices his feet have led him to the cemetery and his hands buy flowers. His hands buy daisies, because they used to be his treasure's favorites, in all their simplicity and beauty. His treasure used to be like them, so pure and simple and beautiful. They used to bring happiness and joy and warmth, but as he places them on the cold stone of his beloved's grave, they seem withered and all their flaws seem to be outstanding, just like everything else in this rotten world. Defective, hollow, _ugly_. He realizes, then, his treasure used to be the only light in the darkness. He made things bearable, life livable.

He sits down and stares into the landscape; the sun is setting and whichever time of the year it is, it almost feels comforting—all the red and orange and purple mixing like oil on canvas, he just watches the colors blending and, for a moment, forgets to mourn the death of his heart. It was all okay for that moment, as though the world stopped for brief seconds and forgot to keep on turning; he was frozen there, and maybe wondered if it was his angel the author of such heavenly picture, just for him to feel a little less pitiful for himself. He lies down, his back touches the cold stone and his eyes drift shut slowly.

_Where are you_, he asks in his head.

_Come back_, he pleads in his heart.

_I need you_, he longs in his soul.

His mind goes away, as to never come back ever again.

He feels a light touch on his cheek, like the feather of an angel. His eyes open and adjust to the light and he sees a white ceiling he can't recognize. The blinds can't keep the sunlight out, morning that invades the room and projects warm shadows all around. He pictures soft blond hair, lighter than his own, right next to him, and his heart is shot with an erratic pace, suddenly taken out from loneliness. He celebrates the rebirth of his heart, full of life once more, and he knows he has finally awoken from a nightmare where he had found something to live for and it had been torn away from his bare hands.

Ocean eyes open up and look into his own and they are filled with tears. He knows those tears, he knows they are happy ones, so full of affection and relief.

_I thought I'd lost you_, the voice he missed so much caresses his ears like silk.

_I thought you'd never come back_, the eyes he could only picture closed and dead have the most beautiful irises wet with joy and hope.

_But you're back_, the skin he longed for embraces him.

_You're finally back_, and his treasure is all there right in front of him, flaws and perfection altogether incarnated in flesh and bones.

He holds the hand his own had yearned for what seemed to be too long with all the strength his post-comatose body allowed. The hole in his essence felt filled after so much suffering, and he knows, he is _sure_ of how the both of them had struggled through the accident that had taken his mind so deep and caged him inside his own most frightening fantasies. But he has finally awaken, he is finally back to the reality where everything is joyful, where life is livable and the world has so much more beauty to be yet discovered.

_I love you_, his throat manages to spill in a hoarse sound.

They make promises only fools in love are allowed to, and their chests feel so close their heartbeats overlap, and the bad dreams become a lapse in time they can always forget about, and the world is full of joy and light again.

_Dreaming, I was only dreaming  
><em>_I wake and I find you asleep  
><em>_In the deep of my heart here  
><em>_Darling, I hope  
><em>_That my dream never haunted you  
><em>_My heart is telling you  
><em>_How much I wanted you_

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><p><strong>AN: **Hi, guys! It's been a while since I've last updated/uploaded anything. Also, I'm really sorry this ended up sounding so much like Inception; it's my addiction to limbo!fics manifesting itself in the wrong fandom. The A/N had to be in the end, too, or else I'd ruin the surprise (was it a surprise that Kenny was actually in coma? Nah, I tried). Thank you so much for reading! Pleaaase review if you have the time! It always makes me so very happy!


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